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To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do lower upon you for some ill; Move them no more, by crossing their high will. [Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar. 1 Mu. Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.

Nurse. Honest, good fellows, ah, put up, put up ; For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.

[Exit Nurse. 1 Mu. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

Enter PETER.

Peter. Musicians, O, musicians, heart's ease, heart's ease,' O, an you will have me live, play 'heart's ease.'

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1 Mu. Why 'heart's ease?'

Peter. O musicians, because my heart itself plays, My heart is full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump 1 to comfort me.

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2 Mu. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now. Peter. You will not then?

Mu. No.

Peter. I will then give it you soundly.

1 Mu. What will you give us?

Peter. No money, on my faith; but the gleek: 2

I will give you the minstrel.

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1 Dumps were heavy, mournful tunes, adapted for elegies.

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2 A pun is here intended between gleek,' scorn; gleekman,' which signified a minstrel.

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1 Mu. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Peter. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets : I'll re you; I'll fa you. Do you note me?

1 Mu. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

2 Mu. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Peter. Then have at you with my wit: I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger.-Answer me like men.

'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress ;

Then Music, with her silver sound,'

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Why, silver sound?' why, Music, with her silver sound?'—What say you, Simon Catling?

1 Mu. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Peter. Pretty!-What say you, Hugh Rebeck ? 2 Mu. I say 'silver sound,' because musicians sound for silver.

Peter. Pretty too!-What say you, James Soundpost?

3 Mu. Faith, I know not what to say.

Peter. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer : I will say for you. It is Music, with her silver sound,' because such fellows as you have seldom gold for sounding :

'Then Music, with her silver sound,
With speedy help doth lend redress.'

[Exit, singing.

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1 Mu. What a pestilent knave is this same !

2 Mu. Hang him, Jack! Come, we 'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Mantua. A street.

Enter ROMEO.

Ro. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom's lord 1 sits lightly in his throne; And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead; (Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to

think!)

And breathed such life with kisses in my lips,
That I revived, and was an emperor.

Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd,
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy!

Enter BALTHASAR.

News from Verona!-How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?

1 i. e. the god of love.

How fares my Juliet? That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill if she be well.

Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
Her body sleeps in Capels' monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives:

I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault,
And presently took post to tell it you.
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Ro. Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.

Bal. Pardon me, sir; I will not leave you thus : Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure.

Ro.

Tush, thou art deceived: Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Bal. No, my good lord.

Ro. And hire those horses: I'll be with thee straight.

No matter: get thee gone,

[Exit Balthasar.

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night:
Let's see for means.-O, mischief! thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,-

And hereabouts he dwells,-whom late I noted
In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples: meagre were his looks;
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,

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